


Can't Erase

by sanidine



Category: Sons of Anarchy
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Food Issues, Gang Rape, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Prostitution, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Multi, Non-Consensual Tattooing, Non-Linear Narrative, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Stockholm Syndrome, Underage Rape/Non-con, Victim Blaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-03-08 06:19:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3198602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanidine/pseuds/sanidine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Juice's life with the Mayans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can't Erase

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Wear the brows of grace](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2497580) by [kitsune_kitana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitsune_kitana/pseuds/kitsune_kitana). 



> [tumblr ](http://www.bingitoff.Tumblr.com)
> 
> Please let me know if I missed tagging something. Un-beta'd
> 
> And if you haven't done so already, definitely go read the excellent fic that inspired this one!

_Be good. Don't fuck up. Know your place._

Those words in his head, again and again.

\---

Marcus told Juice that the Mayans had finally gotten sick of him - he had been eating too much, taking up space, not earning his keep even when they turned him out. They had finally used him up and now Marcus was going to throw him to the CROs. A pound of flesh for the white boys, to make up for a disagreement.

Then Marcus had reached down and pinched his side, hard. "Maybe a couple of pounds. Right, Juicy?"

Juice had just said “Yes, sir” and kept his face turned to the floor. Marcus didn’t like it if Juice made too much noise while getting fucked.

\---

Legally, people in his position were supposed to have official indenturement paperwork. They got microchips implanted in their necks, and their owners had rules about what could be done to them. Juice didn't have any of that. When had the Mayans ever been concerned about legality? Nobody knew or cared that he existed, and the only rules that had ever been laid down about handling him were not to spoil him and not to cut anything off.

Juice had been so grateful for that last rule.

\---

When Juice had been thirteen, fourteen years old, his hands had trembled all of the time and his mouth had always tasted like blood. He would wet himself in the middle of the night and wake up shaking, pathetic, trying not to cry. His face had been perpetually swollen by a series of black eyes, and his entire body felt like an open wound.

Juice had known even then that there would never be anything else for him. Nobody else would want him, not after -. Sometimes he felt good when they did things to him, and it left Juice feeling sick and ashamed even though he knew that he should have been grateful. He _was_ grateful. Even if the Mayans were raided and Juice was transferred to the foster system, who would take him? Without the Mayans he would end up in a pharmaceutical testing lab, locked in a tiny cage until he got a bad drug and his intestines melted. If Juice had ever had dreams for the future, they didn't matter anymore.

And it wasn’t… Juice knew that it wasn’t all bad. It could be ok, just as long as he followed the rules. If Juice was good he would be allowed to eat and he didn't bleed as badly after and he might even get to sleep on a couch. He had learned how to kneel properly, how to relax his throat, how to stay quiet and out of the way. He tried so hard to remember that he couldn't say 'no' anymore, and he never, ever, took food without explicit permission. At fourteen he was just starting to really understand all the things that men could want from him, how to do those things and try to do them well. But it seemed like Juice just couldn't stop fucking up no matter how hard he tried.

Salazar, who had been club president at the time, had explained to Juice that he was very slow and stupid. Juice was not good at learning his place. It was frustrating, that they had taken him in and he turned out to be so difficult. When Juice learned to be good they wouldn't have to hurt him anymore. And God, he had wanted so desperately to be good.

Juice would learn to be better. He had to.

\---

In this life, what tattoos does Juice have? Do they mean anything?

They probably meant something to the men who marked him, but the tattoos meant nothing to Juice. It wasn’t like he had any control over what was inked into his skin. His body didn’t belong to him, he understood that. He did. He understood that it wasn’t his place to choose what ink he got, just like it wasn’t his place to choose when or where he was fucked. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter. The Mayans could do whatever they wanted to him.

Getting tattooed wasn't really that much different than the other things they made him do, anyway. If Juice just held still and kept quiet it would be over sooner and it hurt less.

\---

Marcus broke Juice's arm when he was twenty-two.

Juice had been – he had been asking for it. He’d been moving too slow, had taken too long getting Marcus his drink. He hadn’t heard Marcus come up beside him, and the sudden grip on his elbow had startled him. Juice had pulled away from the contact before he could stop himself. Such a small movement, but so much worse than a flinching. He’d frozen as soon as he realized what he had done but it was too late.

“Almost ten years.” Marcus sighed as he pulled his beer from Juice’s trapped hand. Took a sip. “Almost ten years and you still misbehave so badly.”

“I’m sorry, sir.” Juice had kept his eyes trained carefully on the ground. Tried to make himself small. Didn't struggle. He hadn’t meant to. He hadn't wanted to pull away, but excuses wouldn't help after what he had done. “I’m sor-”

The sudden pain of his arm being twisted up and back had driven Juice to his knees, made him see stars. His mind had gone blank, then, and he had fucked up. He had fucked up so bad. Marcus probably would have felt it sufficient to beat the lesson into him again, except that Juice had looked up at him. Made eye contact.

It was easy for Marcus to break his arm. It wasn't the first time that he’d done it. The old break parted sweetly, loud and wet, and just before Juice passed out he felt the broken edge of the bone as it jagged along against the inside of his skin.

When Juice woke up he was lying on his back, naked, his broken arm drawn up to his chest. It hurt, it hurt, but Juice knew was getting what he deserved for misbehaving. His vision swam a bit, but he could tell that Alvarez was between his legs, the rest of the club lined up behind him. Waiting their turn. Things were just getting started, and they didn't let him pass out again.

(When the doctor came only two days later to cast his arm, Juice knew that he had gotten lucky. Juice had been feverish with the pain and the beginnings of an infection, but the doctor had still been willing to take his ass in partial trade with the little bit of money Juice had hidden away. The doctor had even given Juice some antibiotics and set the broken arm before fucking him.) 

\--- 

Juice hadn’t ever thought that Marcus would just give him away to another MC. It wasn’t that he thought he was anything special – it was just that the best future Juice had ever imagined was the one where they shot him in the head. A quick death once he wasn't worth keeping anymore, if he deserved it. Otherwise he would end up sold for snuff, or given to Castillo. In those scenarios Juice knew that he would go slowly, and in pieces.

Being given to the Sons had been an unexpected last chance. But as he waited with the Mayans at the meeting place, Juice wasn't sure how much of a chance it was. He knew now that it had been more than just a disagreement. Marcus really meant for him to be a pound of flesh. A sacrifice. It was all Juice was good for anymore.

His stomach went cold and liquid when he first heard the rumbling of the engines in the distance. It had been stupid to let himself hope at all. Juice should have known better. It had been foolish to think that he would stop being a fuck up, that could wipe away his slate clean just because someone new owned him. Even after all his years with the Mayans he still couldn't hide how weak he was - the Sons were sure to find those same soft, vulnerable places. And then, Juice knew, he would be punished.

_Be good. Don't fuck up. Know your place_

By the time that the Sons pulled into the yard, Juice was having to work very hard not to be sick. He could already feel the invisible scythe of _owing_ hanging over his head - he couldn't even begin to think of all the things that he would have to do to pay them back, all of the debts that he would never be able to erase. But despite it all, that frantic, terrified voice in his head reminded Juice that he didn't want to die. That he still had a chance, no matter how small and desperate.

 _Be good. Don't fuck up. Know your place_. 

If - If they would just take him, if Juice could prove that he was worth keeping, if they didn't send him back. He would work hard and he would try not to fuck up. He wouldn't cry or fight, unless they wanted him to. He would do anything, anything that they wanted. 


End file.
